


for daring to love and to love so sweet

by jatz



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Unfinished, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, i had a weird dream abt how i could have turned out and i wanted to document it, i literally dont know how to tag this, im a science major who hasnt touched a book in over 3 yrs and it shows, implied major character death, lgbt character is implied to die and this is a wip idk im never finishing it, not beta read we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 13:53:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18522874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jatz/pseuds/jatz
Summary: somewhere in the banyan above, a darzan called. cheeping sweetly, insistently, for some distant mate or lost love, as if darzan had those, or maybe just in greeting, of boredom.but for what reason it sung, amula didn’t care.





	for daring to love and to love so sweet

**Author's Note:**

> note: unfinished work, i might update it someday, more notes at end

somewhere in the banyan above, a darzan called. cheeping sweetly, insistently, for some distant mate or lost love, as if darzan had those, or maybe just in greeting, of boredom.  
but for what reason it sung, amula didn’t care.  
her feet stained and raw, like she'd been stomping on ammu’s pomegranates again (devi had laughed, flicking the seeds at her like it was all a game, like ammu didn’t just throw her out again for kissing kanna the milk-boy and his sister too), she wanted nothing more than to smear that red across the bird’s mocking white breast, or draw its own blood with a bolt through its pretty little heart. devi had been fond of them though so she left it alone.

_cheeup-cheeup-cheeup_

she rinsed her feet in a still pool. the water was warm.

_cheeup-cheeup-cheeup-cheeup_

she’d gone too far (isnt that what ammu had said, what kanna and his tutor had said after he found her with fingers deep in his sister and teeth dragging across her breast?), so what did it matter anyway? she wouldn’t shoot the bird but she’d kill to shut it up. instead resorted to firing a bolt somewhere into the foliage above, and when the squawk didn’t come, huffed and rose to check the damage.

she slung the crossbow across her back, prepared her knives, and tucked devi’s precious book into the band of her skirt.

windflowers fell underfoot so she cut them down. better cut than trampled. (shed run to school, hair ribbon-bound in neat loopy braids, four minutes late and in a blouse grass-stained green, but with a neat bunch of buttercups in hand. _good mo-rn-ing, ma’am!_ the tune fell off her lips daily, she is late again miss saraswati would say, _but i picked these for you ma’am_. she picked flowers for her miss every day and why didn’t that matter?

(amula would settle next to devi, dropping her bags carelessly and take to the sacred task of drawing on their arms. they were often silent. sometimes devi didn’t understand what shutting up meant so she asked once, _why won’t you let me ride us to school?_ because _, then i cant pick the flowers_.

devi was a monumental idiot so she had still pressed, _i could pick flowers with you, why don’t you ever bring flowers for me?_ )

the sun was high, and her ears burned. she rubbed the skin there and cackled when it stung. amula, the indian who burned, the kids would laugh at her if they saw, her skin inflamed and peeling the way that was reserved for the dumb whities who visited their school in search of enlightenment.

(she humoured devi once, held her waist from the back of the pitiful bicycle, jostling down the path to the meadows) she lodged her knife in the banyan’s folds (let devi follow her, while she broke away stalks of buttercups. held out a trim bundle and frowned, _here, for you, since you wanted my flowers so badly._ devi tucked them into her thick braid and beamed.)  
(it was evening on the dirt road and the flowers mere wilted stalks tangled in devi’s hair. amula had tugged them out gently and asked _when will you fall in love with me?_ devi had said that she _did_ love her. amula pulled a few hairs out with the next buttercup _, that’s not the same, devi._  
a low laugh, then,  
_and how would you know? you’d fuck anyone who smiles your way and call it love_ )

devi had known. had understood the way her waist was held, the hesitance with which her flowers were gifted, had understood that amula loved her. loved her more than ammu, more than kanna, more than his sister. hadn’t understood that amula needed someone _in_ love with her, to return the love she gave out freely.

is that how she’d die? Like her pa, on a cancer born of devi’s ashes?

**Author's Note:**

> my dreams have been intense lately and i just wanted to document them and get the bare writing requirements for my compulsory english course out of the way. im definitely not like a legit writer, so i'd appreciate all and any help/ constructive criticism with what i have so far.


End file.
